


Loco Episode

by erelis



Series: Seasonal Shorts [3]
Category: Far Cry 3
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 15:23:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12609632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erelis/pseuds/erelis
Summary: A chance encounter with Carlos gives Jason an idea. And damned if he doesn't follow through with it.





	Loco Episode

 

As Russell Watson would say, it’s been a long road getting from there to here and Jason still isn’t sure that he even wants to be _here_. Yet despite leaving once in a desperate attempt to try to go back to normal, he quickly returned soon afterward. And he hasn’t tried to leave again. He thinks about it sometimes. Of course he thinks about it. Usually when the mosquitoes are getting on his nerves or he unwittingly finds himself in the middle of one of those bizarre nonsense fights that come on out of nowhere like an unexpected thunderstorm and disappear just as fast. But he never actually follows through with his petulant, frustrated threats to go.

Because the jungle's in him now.

He feels it deep in his bones, a constant, preternatural awareness of the world that he never had before setting foot on Rook. It races through his veins like a river's rough, wild current, carrying him across uneven terrain and around twisting trees and overgrown paths without missing a step. He breathes in the humid air, smells the scent of vegetation, earth, and salt water, and feels alive in a way he's spent so much of his life seeking and never before managed to capture.

California is a distant dream. Its paved roads and bustling cities as foreign and strange to him as the islands used to be. He isn't sure he likes this new life or this person he's become, but he can't go back to endless laws, social pressures, and white-collar nine-to-five grinds. There's only one law that shapes his life now and it supersedes everything else.

The past isn't forgotten, though. He thinks about Grant all the time. He visits the place he died at least once a month, guilt and remorse and regret like a chain he knows he'll never truly shake off. And he doesn't _want_ to let it go. If he does... Well, he doesn't know, but Grant's his last true tie to the world he came from and some part of Jason is afraid of what he'll become if he discards it.

Time is a tricky thing here. He marks the passage of days with the rising and setting of the sun, but the old calendar doesn't mean much to him anymore. Tigers don't care whether it's Tuesday or Friday as they stalk through the darkness in the heart of the jungle. The tide doesn't worry about whether it's a weekday or the weekend as it washes against the shore. Jason cared once, back when chasing the next big thrill was all that mattered to him, but these days, he can't be bothered to keep track of everything the way he once did.

But Rook isn't cut off from the world. Without Citra and Hoyt fucking everything up, the place is doing a lot better than it had been. The internet's more reliable. Cell service exists for those who want to keep in touch with people outside the islands. There’s finally more than one godawful radio station. Regular shipments of goods and exotic food come in and keep the tiny economy going. When he wants to pay attention, Jason _can_ get himself off of jungle time and back to something a little more civilized.

This time, he has Carlos to thank for it. And blame. Carlos is _totally_ getting the blame.

A chance encounter with the guy in Gaztown two weeks ago is what led him here, to this remote outcropping on the South Island with nothing but an ample dose of self-conscious embarrassment and a rucksack loaded down with supplies. And a machete. He rarely goes anywhere on Rook without his machete. But it's a private, out of the way place, far removed from settlements, Rakyat camps, or pirate hangouts. He thinks, he _hopes_ , that he won't be disturbed. He feels like enough of a jackass by himself. Having an audience will just make it worse.

Setting the rucksack down upon a large boulder with a relatively flat top, he flips it open and starts taking out the odds and ends he's been nonchalantly collecting for the better part of a week. The first is a fat orange candle that he sits on the flattest part of the rock. The next is a little box of matches that he places near the candle. A bag of almond butter cookies, baked by a friend in Amanaki Town and inexpertly shaped into little blobs she had assured him were skulls, follows. And lastly, after casting a sheepish glance around to make sure that he's still alone, he puts an orange hibiscus beside the cookies.

Jason pauses then, hands on his hips, to survey the spread. It looks stupid as hell and he feels like the worst kind of asshole to be doing something that puts him so far out of his depth. But everything here is from the list that Carlos gave him, if somewhat creatively interpreted when the actual items couldn't be secured. Like marigolds. Where the fuck does a guy get marigolds on Rook?

"It's about remembrance," Carlos had told him, after Jason had sidled over and inquired about all the weird shit he was picking up from the merchant at that hole in the wall shop. "Remembering and honoring the people you've lost."

He chews on his lip for a few seconds, then exhales and digs a spent .22 casing and a pair of swimming goggles out of the rucksack. The strap's worn, obviously used by someone, and the lenses are tinted blue. Jason studies the objects, trying to ignore the conflicting tangle of guilt and remorse churning in his gut. It hasn't really lessened over the years. He thinks it probably never will.

_Sorry Grant,_ he thinks, too self-conscious to say the words out loud. Carefully, he puts both things down onto the rock near the candle. _This is the best I can do._

Originally, that had been the extent of his intentions. A memorial to Grant. A way to honor and remember him. And apologize too, maybe. Which is sentimental and stupid, he knows that, but simply thinking it every time the guilt pricks him isn't enough. He has to _do_ something, even if it's pointless.

But once he'd started on the path of loss, he'd found more than he'd expected. Lost innocence, cliched as that is. Lost lives that can never be regained. Lost senses of security and perceptions of the world. Grant may have died on Rook, but so have parts of the survivors. Realizing this, Jason can't just let it go at two inadequate trinkets. He has to recognize all of them.

He reaches into the rucksack again and takes out the tokens, some unquestionably appropriate and others he knows are stretching it, one by one. A tiny metal die cast airplane. A small die cast car. A piece of driftwood carved into a star. A crumpled dollar bill. A freshly rolled joint. A small model boat not unlike the one that delivered them from the islands.

There's nothing in there to symbolize the Jason Brody who perished in the jungle. His offering to the makeshift alter is the blood that's already been spilled across the length and breadth of Rook, from the minor scrapes and cuts that's part and parcel to running through the wilderness to the gunshot wounds and marks of blades that criss-cross his once relatively unmarred skin. The life and prosperity that came to the island in the aftermath of the old Jason's death is testament enough, he thinks.

He _hopes_.

One item remains at the bottom of the bag. Jason's fingertips hover over it for a few long, uncertain seconds. It feels a little like sacrilege—funny, that he can still think of anything as sacred after all the people he's killed—to set it among the other items. Like he's betraying his friends and his brothers for even considering it. But Rook has claimed more than just the lives of his friends, and if there's one thing that the jungle has taught him, it's that the truth is just as brutal as life can be.

The little plastic tiger, painted colors still vibrant, goes right next to the bullet casing. It's a kind of subtle symbolism to which Jason isn't the least bit oblivious.

Looking it all over one last time, he drops the rucksack onto the ground, strikes one of the matches, and lights the wick of the candle. He blows out the match, flicks it away, and then just stands there, not quite sure how to proceed. Carlos hadn't explained the rest of it to him and Jason, for once, hadn't pressed his luck with the guy.

_Should've asked if I'm supposed to eat the cookies or leave them here_ , he thinks, scratching idly at his chin. It's prickly with stubble. He's going to need to hunt down a razor at some point soon and cut it back before it turns into an unkempt mess. _Maybe I should say something..._

Speeches aren't his thing. Whatever honest, heart to heart talk he's probably supposed to be having with the ghosts of the people he's known is going to be a half-assed, awkward collection of pauses and _ums_ , but not saying something just feels weird and unfinished.

Jason takes a deep breath. He's faced down psychopaths, mercenaries, and giant sharks. A speech that no one can hear isn't going to kill him. Not even on Rook. "Okay." Briefly, his gaze tracks sideways, out from the makeshift alter toward the deep blue of the ocean, stretching out to the horizon below the bluff and sparkling like diamonds in the sun. "Right. So, it's the day after Halloween and I—"

"Hey Jason!"

The harsh whisper startles the ever-loving shit out of him. Heart pounding, Jason whips around to face it, his hand automatically going to the machete hanging from his belt. He knows who he's going to see before he completes the turn. There's no mistaking that voice.

And there's Vaas, like a maniacal specter of death, emerging from a large overgrowth of palms. There's a pistol clipped to his side, but his hands are empty. Jason knows him too well to be lured in by that false sense of security. Armed or not, he's still the most dangerous predator on the islands.

" _Jesus Christ!"_ It's tempting to follow through with the impulse to unsheathe the machete just in case, though Jason doesn't do it. Vaas might take it as an invitation to _play_ and he's really not in the mood for the bullshit right now. Forcing his hand to fall to his side, he settles for scowling at him and nonchalantly shifting further in front of the rock to conceal what's on top of it. "What the hell, Vaas?"

Vaas stops, a miracle in and of itself, and leans sideways to try to see around him. He smiles, a curious, relatively benign expression, and lifts his eyebrows. "What are you doing, Jason?"

Jason's lips compress in annoyance. If he's too defensive and vehement, Vaas won't leave it alone. If he tells him, he'll never hear the end of the mockery. But if he acts like he's bored and there's nothing interesting going on, Vaas _might_ drop it and move on. "None of your business," he says, shrugging, trying to keep his voice bland.

The attempt must fail miserably.

Like a hungry tiger suddenly catching the scent of prey after a long hunt, Vaas straightens up. His eyebrows lower and his friendly smile turns into a sharp grin. Even at a distance, Jason can see the hyper alert focus in his eyes. "You sure about that, _hermano_?" he drawls.

He almost gets sidetracked from the question by the old _I'm not your brother, stop calling me that_ argument. It's frustratingly unwinnable, but Vaas' stubborn refusal to stop using the term on him, regardless of the reasons aggravation occasionally prompts him to give, ensures that Jason can't let it go. But at the last second, as he's opening his mouth to tell him off, he recalls that that isn't the issue here. "Yes, I'm sure!" _Fucking idiot._ "That's why I said it."

"You get very defensive whenever I catch you doing something you don't want me to see," Vaas points out with disturbingly perceptive reasonableness. "You know that?"

"I'm not—"

Vaas clicks his tongue and wags a finger in admonishment. "Your eye is twitching, Jason. It does that when you're lying. There!" He jabs the finger in Jason's direction. "Right there."

Jason _could_ point out that his eye's twitching because Vaas is being an obnoxious pain in the ass, but previous instances of doing that have taught him how quickly Vaas can turn on the selective hearing. He settles for glaring at him.

That doesn't work either. "So what it is?"

He sighs so heavily that he almost starts coughing. "Just go away." Which is a mistake. He knows it almost as soon as he starts talking, but there's nothing to do for it except finish the weary demand.

As expected, Vaas takes it as an invitation to do the opposite. Jason watches him slink closer with feral grace. Instincts forged by his time on Rook recognize danger and shout at him to run like hell, but Jason just stands there and crosses his arms over his chest. It doesn't surprise him that Vaas is going to be an asshole about this. That's why Jason went as far away from his camp as possible to do it, hoping if he left the North Island, he'd avoid exactly what's happening now.

_I don't know why I expect anything else. I ought to know better by now._

Vaas comes up beside him, unnecessarily crowding too close. His shoulder presses against Jason's upper arm, his skin warm and slightly sticky with sweat from being out in the sun. Doing his best to ignore him, Jason turns back to the collection of trinkets on the rock. He tries not to imagine what Vaas thinks of it. He'll tell him soon enough.

The silence lasts about two minutes longer than Jason thinks it will.

"Jason, what the fuck is all this?" Tipping his head, Vaas squints up at him as he gestures toward the rock. "This what you do by yourself? Play with toys? Who are you, Josh Baskin? How old are you?"

Scowling, Jason elbows him hard enough to jostle him sideways half a step. "If you're going to be a dick about it, I'm not going to tell you."

A couple years ago, he could have expected _at least_ a punch for the elbow. Now, Vaas only straightens up and looks at him expectantly. "Well? What the fuck is it?"

Although he _really_ doesn't want to tell him and open himself up to the mockery that will ensue, Jason knows that continuing to resist will just prolong the agony. The sooner he gives him what he wants, the sooner Vaas will lose interest and let him alone.

Consigning himself to at least twenty minutes of insults and creative uses of the terms _pussy_ and _bitch,_ Jason concedes the battle. "It's a..." He focuses on the rock, finding it easier to look at it than at Vaas. "A memorial, I guess."

"You guess?" Vaas echoes, though it doesn't have much bite. "To what? Your childhood?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason sees him reach for the airplane. He slaps his hand away before his fingers make contact with it. Vaas gives him a sharp glance that he ignores. "No." _Goddamn it._ It's taking the coward's way out and Jason knows it, but he deflects anyway. "Look, Carlos said—"

"Oooh," Vaas interrupts, nodding sagely. " _Dia de los Muertos_." He slants another look Jason's way, this time skeptical. "You white boys celebrate that in California?"

_Here we go_. "Carlos told me about it," Jason forces out through clenched teeth. "Figured it'd be a good idea to try it."

Vaas studies him for a few seconds longer, then seems to accept it. "So who is it?"

"You don't understand privacy at all, do you?"

Snorting, Vaas slaps a hand on Jason's shoulder. "There aren't secrets between us, Jason."

This time, he lets himself get distracted. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he demands, rounding on him. "There's nothing _but_ secrets—"

"Jason, please." Vaas clicks his tongue, then curls his arm around Jason's shoulders and hauls him in against his side. Off-balance and listing sideways, he can't pull back fast enough to prevent Vaas from getting a good hold on him. "We're close, you and me. Very close. Don't tell lies."

Rolling his eyes, and then his shoulders for good measure, Jason pushes at him. "Let go."

Vaas' fingers dig into his shoulder. Quietly, he repeats, "Who is it, Jason?"

He exhales hard. "My friends. My brothers."

"What, you get an email from home or something?" Vaas doesn't sound concerned the way a normal person would, but he sounds interested in the answer, which is probably as close as he gets.

"No, it—" Jason flounders, not knowing how to explain a sentimental whim without making himself sound like an idiot. Steadfastly refusing to look at Vaas, he can still feel him watching him. "They're fine. Far as I know. No, I just wanted to..."

Strangely, as he trails off, Vaas stops staring at him. And when he does, Jason glances at him to see what distracted him. But there's nothing there that hadn't been a moment ago. Vaas is looking at the rock, his expression almost thoughtful.

"Which is which?" he asks after a short silence, gesturing with his free hand toward the tokens.

_Jesus fuck, will you just let it go?_ But he won't. Jason knows he won't. For some reason, this shit is holding his interest and as long as it does, he's stuck with him.

"Grant," he answers, pointing to the goggles and the bullet casing. He shifts his finger to the side. "And that's—"

"Hold up," Vaas cuts in sharply, surprise shifting to disappointment. "What the fuck, Jason?"

"Huh?"

Vaas scowls at him. "You don't know the difference between a nine millimeter and a twenty-two yet?"

That isn't illuminating what's gotten Vaas so offended about in the slightest. "What?"

"You think I'm carrying around some tiny twenty-two like a pussy? I've got a—"

Comprehension dawns. Angry revulsion follows swiftly after it.

"Fuck, Vaas!" When Jason pushes him this time, it's hard enough to send him back a few paces. "You're such a fucking asshole! You can't go five fucking minutes without gloating about killing my brother, can you? _Jesus_."

Looking a little taken aback by his outburst, Vaas lifts both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, okay. Chill the fuck out, Jason."

" _Chill out?!"_ He's shouting and distinctly doesn't give a shit. "You're telling me to _chill out_ about—"

"I wasn't shit talking your pussy bother!" Vaas shouts back. "Fuck! You're so fucking sensitive, Jason." Jason opens his mouth, sure he's going to finally literally explode in fury, but Vaas plows on. "I was just asking a fucking question. I don't know. You don't have to start fucking yelling about it."

The stupid thing is, he's probably telling the truth. He probably has no clue how offensive everything he's just said is. Jason wants to strangle him. Wrap his hands around his neck and just... _squeeze_. It won't help. It won't kill him. But damned if it wouldn't make him feel a little better anyway.

"He was in the Army," Jason growls. "A soldier." He gives it a second or ten to sink into Vaas' thick fucking head before jerking his finger toward the goggles. "Part of the swim team before that. Wasn't like I had a fucking picture of him instead."

Letting his hands fall to his sides, Vaas takes another look at the bullet and the goggles, then looks back to Jason. There's a wariness to that look. Not out of fear for his own safety but out of anticipation for a mess he doesn't want or know how to clean up. Jason can feel his chest heaving a little too hard. He tells himself to slow his breathing down and try to relax so that he doesn't have a coronary.

"What about the rest of it?" The question isn’t an apology, though Vaas does deliver it with what passes for him as the the air of calling for a truce.

Jason points to the objects in quick succession, calling out the names of the people associated with each one. The airplane. “Riley.” The dollar bill. “Keith.” The boat. “Daisy.” The car. “Vincent.” He pretends not to see Vaas’ look of blank confusion at his friend’s name and keeps going with a gesture to the star. “Liza.” And finally, the joint. “Oliver.”

To his utter lack of surprise, Vaas' attention gets hung up on the joint. He stares hard at it for a second. "Hey, is that one of mine?"

The casual indifference of his shrug hides the gleeful satisfaction he feels at pulling one over on Vaas. No matter how many times he manages to do it, it never gets old. "Only the best for a friend."

Pride, annoyance, sarcasm: the crooked twist to his mouth can be interpreted as any of them. Or none of them. With as a lightning-fast as Vaas' mood changes, it's not always possible for Jason to read his expressions correctly. He clicks his tongue. "Jason, you are becoming a kleptomaniac."

"Really? You're gonna talk to me about stealing?"

Jason's waiting for a stupid detour down an even stupider road, but instead of following the hypocritical accusation to its inevitable fiery wreck, Vaas asks, "What about that tiger?"

There's no way of telling if the subject change is on purpose. The days of being completely sure that Vaas is nothing more than a batshit crazy lunatic are long gone. Experience has taught him that there's a hell of a lot more going on there than maybe anyone realizes and that Vaas is an extraordinarily clever bastard who just _might_ be conning them all.

Then again, maybe he's just fucking nuts. What does Jason know?

He doesn't answer him. He doesn't even look at him. Ignoring Vaas has never caused him to go away, but damned if it isn't worth the effort of trying to make it happen now.

Vaas waits for a bit, looking at him expectantly, and the longer Jason says nothing, the more pronounced the transformation of his expression into an amused, mocking smirk becomes. "You?" he finally asks, scoffing.

"No."

"So who..." His brows draw in as he pauses, considers, and then reaches the worst conclusion. "It isn't Citra, is it? You aren't mourning my fucking sister, are you, Jason?"

"What?" Jason looks at him, openly bewildered, before vehemently shaking his head. "No!"

There are two subjects Jason tries to avoid with Vaas: Grant and Citra. It never works out, because Vaas never follows the unspoken rule of not fucking bringing either of them up in conversation, but _he_ tries upholding his part of the nonexistent bargain. Otherwise, they end up shouting at each other and one of them usually takes a shot—or a stab or a punch or in one memorable instance, a shove right off the side of a cliff—at the other.

"That fucking bitch deserved it," Vaas snarls furiously, grabbing a fistful of Jason's shirt and getting right up in his face like he means to tear his throat out with his teeth. "Just because you fucked her—"

_Oh, hell no._ "It's you!" Jason blurts out, desperate to head this one off right the fuck now. "All right? The tiger's you!"

It works. Vaas blinks, lets go of his shirt, and settles back on his heels. After a long silence, he says slowly, in that soft, even voice he always uses when he tries calming a screaming, terrified captive down, "...I'm not dead, Jason."

Jason gives him a flat, unimpressed stare. "No shit."

Moving back into his space, Vaas presses his palm up against Jason's forehead. The fury has evaporated as if it had never been there. In its place is solicitous concern. "Are you having some kind of _loco_ episode? Is that it? Are you hearing voices, Jason?"

_Just yours. All the fucking time._ He swats Vaas' hand away from his face. For good measure, he pushes him back out of his personal space.

"Vaas, I swear..." Sighing, Jason rubs at his face, then runs the fingers of both hands back through his hair. "Look, this place, it changes people. It changed me. Riley. My friends. None of us are the same anymore. And you've been here longer than all of us."

Words aren't Jason's forte. They never have been and years spent running through the jungle, surviving on his wits, reflexes, and how ruthless a killer he's become hasn't left much room for linguistic enrichment. Vaas doesn't get it. Jason's reasonably sure the scrunched up look Vaas is giving him is one of genuine confusion and not a trap to get him to incriminate himself. He tries again.

"You've done a lot of bad shit, yeah. But I know a lot of it happened _to_ you, too." It's a gamble, but he takes the chance that Vaas will cotton on to what he means before he flips out over nothing. "Citra. Hoyt. Their bullshit changed you. And I figured, hell, I don't know. I figured if I was going to do all this—" He gestures toward the rock. "—honoring all the people who've been lost here, I'd do the same for you."

It's Jason turn to step closer, though there's no threat in the way he pokes Vaas' bare forearm. There's no trace of the tautau he once bore, but Jason hasn't forgotten the time he mentioned it or the suggestion of which arm he'd worn it on. "You got lost too."

He braces for the derision he knows is coming. Vaas never reacts kindly to sentimentality and even Jason thinks he's crossed the line into pussydom with this one. But Vaas doesn't give him that maniac smile or start laughing in his face. He just studies him, thoughtfully enough that Jason starts to wonder if he ought to be worried.

"So you're trying to honor me," Vaas offers, not quite repeating Jason's words but not exactly asking a question either.

"Yes," Jason answers anyway, wary.

"Could've just blown me."

"Vaas."

"What?" The stupid bastard has the gall to look at him like _he's_ the one being stupid. "You get on your knees. Suck my dick. That's a good way to honor me."

_For fuck's sake._ As tempting as it is to recreate that balmy afternoon a year and a half ago and shove Vaas right over the edge of the bluff, Jason only makes a sound of disgust. "Asshole. I'm never doing anything nice for you ever again."

Vaas turns his attention back to the rock and surveys the items arranged on top of it one more time. Jason watches him, sees the moment when the muscles in his jaw tense prior to him opening his mouth, and tenses himself. _Here it comes._

"You really think I'm like a tiger, Jason?" Vaas asks, cocking his head to look at him.

Revisiting his token choice is better than listening to Vaas go off on him being a pussy, a little bitch, or the new favorite insult, a pussy bitch. Jason takes it and shrugs. "Most dangerous predator in the jungle. Besides, they don't have little Vaas figures. Best I could do."

"They should make little action figures of me," Vaas murmurs, leaving Jason to curse himself for planting the idea in the wilderness of his mind. _Maybe he'll forget. He forgot about the monkey._

The bump as Vaas leans his shoulder against him isn't subtle. Jason could step to the side and get away from him, but he doesn't. They stand there for a few minutes, silent, as the candle flame burns through the wick and the breeze ruffles the petals of the hibiscus, bringing with it the scent of salt water and sun. Maybe, he decides, words aren't necessary. Maybe this is enough after all.

"Hey Jason?"

"Hm?"

"Loto said he saw a sailboat off the coast of Valsa."

Jason eyes him suspiciously. "And..."

Vaas grins up at him, wide and full of teeth. "It's heading for the dock."

"No."

"Martin's getting the batteries," Vaas continues, ignoring him. "There's a whole family on there! Figure we can make 'em last a week? Maybe two. I don't know."

"Absolutely not."

"You're no fucking fun, Jason."

He throws his hands into the air. "How can you even—"

It shouldn't be possible how disappointed with him Vaas can manage to look. Especially when he’s the one trying to stop the gleeful torture of innocent people. "Never said anything about killing them. It's Halloween, yeah? Scaring them's just as fun."

"Halloween was two days ago."

Now he just looks disgusted. "They're fucking tourists, Jason. They don't fucking know."

_No. Abso-fucking-lutely not. Nobody's terrorizing these poor bastards. You and your pirates are going to stay the fuck away from Valsa until they refuel or whatever they're doing there and leave._ He should say any of it. He should say all of it. Five years ago, he would. But that Jason Brody, the adrenaline junkie with no direction and even less motivation to be anything but a partier, is dead. The one who wears the tatau and stalks the shadows of the jungle, the one the Rakyat now call Snow White in tones of awe-tinged fear is someone else entirely.

_I’m going to kick myself for this later._

He gives Vaas a stern look, studies his eyes and tries his damnedest to will some restraint into a man who only knows what the word means in relation to keeping abducted tourists where he wants them. " _Just_ scare them."

Vaas hoots and slaps Jason on the back. "Those motherfuckers will never forget this!"

"And no fucking batteries. Jesus Christ." Shaking his head, Jason leans forward and scoops up the rucksack. The mementos and offerings he leaves untouched on the rock. "We're chasing them off the island, not torturing them." At Vaas' noncommittal grunt, he adds sternly, "I mean it, Vaas."

Already halfway across the bluff and gaining speed, Vaas glances over his shoulder and grins at him. "Hurry up, Jason!"

And Jason does.


End file.
